


Comfortember one shots

by ixia_ixora, sherlock_is_actually_a_girls_name



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angry John, Anxiety, Broken John Watson, Cuddling & Snuggling, Friends to Lovers, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, PLEASE DO NOT READ CHAPTER 11 IF THIS TRIGGERS YOU, PTSD, Rescue, Sad Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes is a dumbass, Sherlock Is In Trouble, Sleepy Cuddles, Swearing, Violence, beatings, hurt comfort but the comfort is one prompt away muahahah, john doesnt know what to do, mentions of rape non-con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:08:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 9,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27330229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ixia_ixora/pseuds/ixia_ixora, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlock_is_actually_a_girls_name/pseuds/sherlock_is_actually_a_girls_name
Summary: Sherlock is concerned about his blogger's safety
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 55
Kudos: 45
Collections: Comfortember 2020





	1. Rescue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ixia_ixora](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ixia_ixora/gifts).



> This year's comfortember prompts are being written by @fivefeetfangirl and @johnlockandmerthur4ever  
> Please go check out our tumblrs if you're interested.  
> We have also created a sideblog for comfortember prompts @sherlockcomfortemberfics  
> Please go follow us on tumblr for regular updates :)<3

1th November: Rescue 

Sherlock was starting to worry. It had been three hours and fifty two minutes since he had last seen John. He had promised he would be home in half an hour with milk and honey, the latter of which Sherlock had requested for his experiment. 

Sherlock couldn't figure out why John was taking so long. He had tried texting him of course, but the messages weren't delivered or read.

Although he was loathe to accept it, after the pool incident, Sherlock was starting to be overprotective, almost paranoid about John's activities. 

Sherlock sprung up from his chair and started pacing around the room, his nerves on edge. He fiddled with his phone, his fingers hovering over the call button, Mycroft's name flashing on the screen.

He decided that he would wait another hour or so before he called Mycroft.

Another hour passed with no phone calls or texts from John. 

Sherlock was about to press call when his phone rang. "John," Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief and answered immediately.

"Jo-"

"Sh'lock…... sherlock help," John was breathing heavily on the other end and Sherlock's relief shriveled and died. 

"Tell me where you are John, I'm coming," Sherlock said, as he thundered down the staircase, not bothering to change out of his pajamas. He needed to rescue John.

Sherlock reached the bottom of the staircase and bumped into-

"John?" Sherlock whispered, "Wha-?"

"I was calling….." John rested his free hand against the wall and panted. "I was calling to ask you to help me with the groceries. They're too bloody heavy and I can't bring them up by myself."

Sherlock took a deep breath. "What the fuck."


	2. First night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four times John fell asleep on Sherlock, and one time it was different.

2th November: First Night

i)

The moon shone brightly, the light filtering through the night clouds, illuminating John's profile. He stood a couple metres away from Sherlock and Lestrade, shoulders slumped down, but still on guard. He saw Lestrade clap Sherlock on the arm and Sherlock came walking towards him.

"Let's go," he said low, smiling softly. John smiled back weakly and felt Sherlock put his hand on his lower back hesitantly. John could finally relax, after a three day long chase around London.

Sherlock efficiently hailed a cab and helped a half-asleep John in. Carefully he fastened their seatbelts. John slumped down in his seat, as much as the seatbelt allowed, and leaned his head on Sherlock's shoulder.

"It was a good case," John mumbled. Sherlock felt his heart flutter with affection and leaned his cheek against John's head.

"Yes it was."

"Tell me about it." John wriggled closer, his body heat oozing through Sherlock's right side. Sherlock turned his head down.

"You were there the whole time John." His voice was muffled by John's hair.

"I know," John slurred, "I still wanna hear you talk about it." He gave Sherlock's knee a pat before putting it in his own lap. Sherlock wished he had kept it on his knee.

"As you wish." And Sherlock began at the beginning, talking about every detail and clue while John slowly fell asleep on his shoulder, leaving a small spot of drool.

ii)

"John! John, where are you?" Sherlock ran down the hall, storage doors kicking open storage doors in his panic. He had to find John. He stopped and looked left and right. No signs of him.

Think, think, think! Sherlock clutched at his hair. As he was about to turn left he heard a banging sound on the right. He spun around and went the other way. As he approached the sound it quietly died out.

"John?" Sherlock called out, his voice echoing in the emptiness. A muffled sound came from behind a storage door behind him. He walked back and listened intently with his ear to the door. Inside he heard the sound of a body rolling around. Sherlock got out his pin and started to pick the lock carefully, making sure not to break the pin. The lock clicked and Sherlock whipped up the door. Inside John lay on the floor, his arm coming up slowly to block out the light. Sherlock crouched down and checked his pulse.

"I g't drugged," John mumbled. Sherlock opened John's eyes, watching the pupils dilate. "It's jus a sed'tive," John continued. Sherlock chuckled as he tried to pull John up.

"How did you see that when you got drugged?" Sherlock asked, bringing John's arm around his neck.

"I rec'nized it when he inserted it." John smiled fondly at Sherlock. Sherlock smiled back and tried to walk John out of the storage room and out where Lestrade and his team would be soon.

Just as they were about to turn the last corner John stopped walking and looked at Sherlock.

"Sher-" he started before he started to go limp in Sherlock's arms. The two men fell to the floor and there they stayed until Lestrade found them ten minutes later; John snoring in Sherlock's embrace.

iii)

Sherlock looked up from his microscope, tilting his head to the right. Upstairs he could hear John moving in his bed. Nothing out of the ordinary so he turned back to his experiment again.

A few minutes later John started thrashing around. Sherlock froze, his eyes still staring into the microscope, unseeing. The nightmare didn't seem to stop. After a minute Sherlock rose and walked up the stairs. He stood by the door, his ear against it. John was still twisting and turning so Sherlock opened the door and peeked inside. John's sheet was twisted around his legs and his t-shirt was wet around the collar and arms. Sherlock stood still for a moment before taking off his dressing gown and laying it on a chair by John's desk. He walked over to the other side of the bed and gently lowered himself down, his back against the headboard. John was breathing heavily and his hand shook a little. Sherlock closed in, keeping his distance but close enough for John to feel his presence. As John felt the warmth from Sherlock's body he started to calm down. His breathing got more stable and the kicking stopped but his hand was still shaking. Sherlock reached down and pulled the sheet up over them both. After a few minutes the tremor stopped and Sherlock pulled up a medical magazine from John's nightstand. He opened the magazine and started reading as John slowly fell into deep sleep.

iv)

"Sherlock, what have you done to my bed?"

John walked into the kitchen and started to brew tea. Sherlock looked up from the newspaper and raised his brow.

"What have you done to my bed?" John repeated. Sherlock folded the paper and placed his hands in his lap.

"What do you mean?"

"You know bloody well what I mean." John turned and leaned back on the kitchen counter. "I can't sleep now!"

Sherlock waved a dismissing hand and sighed. "I'll clean it up tomorrow."

"No," John turned away and angrily poured hot water in a cup. "Where the hell am I supposed to sleep now?"

"You can use my bed, I don't mind." Sherlock opened up a new paper and started reading again. As John opened his mouth to object Sherlock cocked a brow and tilted his head slightly without looking away from the paper. John closed his mouth and marched off to Sherlock's bedroom.

As he was about to fall asleep he heard silent footsteps enter and the bed sank down with Sherlock's weight. Soft light was coming from the laptop on Sherlock's lap, but it didn't bother John. He closed his eyes, leaned towards the body beside him, and fell asleep to the sound of Sherlock's fingers clicking away on the keyboard.

v)

The microwave beeped and Sherlock took out the popcorn. John was already sitting on the sofa, waiting for Sherlock. In his hand were two beer bottles and when Sherlock sat down he handed one to him. Sherlock took it and placed the bowl of popcorn in his lap. John came closer so their thighs were touching slightly, and reached for a handful of popcorn. He grabbed the remote and pressed play, the 20th century fox theme song beginning. Both men sat in silence, their bodies barely touching, sipping their beer and eating popcorn slowly.

As the movie played away Sherlock felt himself getting drowsy. He began slumping more and more down in his seat. When John took the last of the popcorn Sherlock placed the bowl on the floor and stretched out on his side as much as he could without bumping into John. He laid his head on the armrest and closed his eyes, trying to block out the sounds of the movie. John found the blanket and laid it over him, tucking it under his feet and around his back. Sherlock hummed a thank you and snuggled into the couch trying to get comfortable. He shifted around for a minute, trying to get comfortable before giving up.

John looked at Sherlock and opened his mouth to say something. He closed it and turned back to the movie, but when Sherlock started to move again he spoke.

“You could lay your head in my lap you know.”

Sherlock looked up, his hair like a halo around his head. The light in the flat was low and it was hard to see Sherlock’s eyes, but Sherlock stared intently into John’s. They looked at each other, their eyes glowing, before Sherlock turned around and laid his head in John's lap. He pulled the blanket tight around his shoulders, his feet dangling off the sofa. John carefully laid a hand in the nape of Sherlock's neck. As the film came to an end Sherlock had fallen asleep, mumbling softly as John ran a hand through his curls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, please feel free to leave a comment. It makes my day <333


	3. Nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock never gets nightmares. Until the time he does.

3th November : Nightmare 

Sherlock, as a rule, never had nightmares. It was not that he hadn't seen his fair share of blood and mangled corpses.  
He had.  
If it weren't for the fact that nothing, no matter how serious the injury, seemed to affect him, he would be neck deep in nightmares by now.  
Then along came Jim Moriarty. He had at first tried to dig up Sherlock's somewhat rocky past. But it hadn't affected him. He had remained stoic even as people were murdered in front of him, quite possibly because of him. Nothing pierced his armor.  
But then John Watson happened. Sherlock had lost control of his transport, of his feelings when he was around John. And this realization had come crashing down on him as he stood before John, staring down a criminal.  
He knew with startling clarity that if there was one person who needed to get out of there alive, it was John. He didn't know why, didn't know how, just that John's life was important and that he needed to live. He took a deep breath and cocked the gun.  
He did not expect Jim Moriarty to retreat but he did expect the snipers to take the shot. They were too eager, too riled up not to do it.  
Knowing it was going to happen didn't give him enough time to move out of the way.  
Before he could react, John had tackled him around the waist, sending them both flying into the pool. Sherlock knew something was wrong as soon as he had surfaced. John was nowhere to be seen.  
Sherlock took a deep breath and dived back under.  
And there he was, slowly sinking to the bottom of the pool. Sherlock had only just noticed the bullet wound in John's side.  
A strange mix of emotions struggled within Sherlock as he swam them both towards the pool-side.  
He did not know what he was feeling.  
The tornado of emotion inside Sherlock did not die away even as John was rushed into emergency surgery, even as the doctors said he was safe.  
A few nights later, John Watson was back home, safe and sound, his wound somewhat healed.  
And strangely enough, that's when Sherlock's nightmares had started.  
He tried his hardest not to sleep, because he knew what he would see the moment he closed his eyes.  
It had been a week since Sherlock had had a wink of sleep. The case had provided an adequate distraction from the fact that he needed sleep. But it ended, just like all other cases and he was brought down from the high of being hot on the trail of another criminal.  
When John forced him to go to bed, Sherlock was relieved but also dismayed. He did not want to sleep.  
Sherlock was struck with an idea. He sneaked into John's room and discreetly borrowed one of John's jumpers. He went to sleep clutching the fabric to his chest and dreams evaded him that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are highly appreciated. Comments will certainly make us scream (in delight if that wasn't clear btw)


	4. Anxiety

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has an anxiety attack

4th November

John and Sherlock walked down the street, Sherlock talking about their case.

"If I'm correct about the shoes, which I know I am," Sherlock said confidently, "the murderer is the shop owner." 

They rounded the street corner and walked straight into a huge market. Sherlock kept on talking, walking straight into the mass of people, and didn’t notice that John was not at his side anymore. After a few steps Sherlock stopped and looked around for John. He stood by the corner, backing away from the huge market. Sherlock slowly walked over to him.

"John, is anything wrong?" Sherlock asked, carefully placing a hand on John's arm. John swallowed hard and shut his eyes. Sherlock brought up his other hand, holding John near him. He studied his face, looking for signs of an anxiety attack. 

“It’s the people, right?” Sherlock asked. John still wouldn’t open his eyes, his eyebrows knitted tight on his forehead. He grabbed Sherlock’s coat lapels and bowed his head. Sherlock heard him breath in sharply through his nose. He did this several more times before looking up at Sherlock, and nodded. 

"John, I need you to breathe slow and steady, okay?" Sherlock squeezed John's arms. Together they took a few breaths, John getting his breathing under control. 

"See that store over there? The antique one?" Sherlock dropped a hand and pointed towards the other side of the street, one block down. John nodded again, the fear in his eyes subsiding a little. 

"I need us to get over to that store. Do you think you'll manage that?" 

John's eyes scanned the market, the panic creeping up on his face again. He opened his mouth but hesitated to answer. 

"Listen John," Sherlock said dragging John a little closer to him, their chest almost bumping, "these people are harmless. I can deduce every single one of them, and none of them are dangerous."

John didn't seem to register the words so Sherlock continued speaking. "See the guy over there?" He pointed his chin to the left, at a man looking at some old books. "He's afraid of dogs." 

"The girl over there has ADHD and hates loud noises, but the teddy she's holding is calming her." John looked over at the girl as she reached for her mother's hand. 

"See John? It's nothing to worry about. I will make sure nothing happens to you," Sherlock comforted. 

"What about the lady over there?" John asked, his voice low. Sherlock looked to the right where a woman stood examining some old plates. 

"She's a cat owner, and is expecting a grandchild. Probably a granddaughter. Completely harmless." 

John started to relax more, so Sherlock took John's hand and started to lead him through the masses of people. 

"What about the man in the red jacket there?" 

"Retired policeman, going on a date tonight."

And as Sherlock led John towards the store, deducing people, John's anxiety faded away. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, feel free to leave a comment <3


	5. Cuddling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John both crave physical touch and cuddles. Neither are willing to ask.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter will be from the perspective of both Sherlock and John. Page breaks and markers will be added to avoid head hopping.  
> Hope you enjoy!

5th November: Cuddling

~~~~~~~~

Sherlock :

Sherlock and John finally slowed down. Even though they were in a park, he knew they were safe for the time being. They both needed the time to catch their breaths.  
He panted, out of breath, while John sat down on the park bench his head bent.  
At first, Sherlock didn't notice his surroundings but slowly once he had caught his breath, he started becoming more aware of his environment, deducing people who had come out for a stroll. As he was sweeping his eyes over the joggers, he spotted a couple cuddling on one of the other benches.  
A pang of loneliness crept up on him as he looked at them. One of them had a dog and worked as a strip dancer in a gay bar. The other man was a writer. Sherlock wondered briefly what their story was, how they had met. He wondered if they felt the same adrenaline rush that he did when he was with John-  
He had to forcefully stopped his thoughts from going in that direction. John was just a friend. That's all he was.  
A friend who gave Sherlock a better high than any drug he could consume. A friend who was faithful, loyal, yet fiercely protective. Ideal in every way imaginable.  
Sherlock did not deserve him. He had no right to even think of touching him. Let alone think of cuddling him.  
He glanced at John who was staring at the couple too, with something akin to what Sherlock was feeling. Their eyes met for a brief second before Sherlock turned away.  
Had that been his imagination? Or had John's pupils actually dilated, indicating desire?  
He did not know but he did not turn back to check either way.  
It had been so long since they had touched. The last time, they had been in a market and John had had an anxiety attack. The anxiety attack had been two weeks after the pool fiasco had happened.  
After the pool, John had shown a certain….proclivity towards physical affection. But in the past week, he had started dating which meant Sherlock couldn't touch or even look at him without feeling guilty.  
Sherlock took a deep breath and started walking away. He could hear his heart thundering in his chest.  
When they reached home, the case was still not solved and he had some very uncomfortable emotions clogging his brain.  
He groaned in frustration and picked up the violin. These emotions had to be let out. He started playing, his back to John, pouring his heart out in the notes that flowed from his fingers, willing John to understand somehow. Music had always easier than talking about his feelings.  
He let his eyes fall closed, the colours of the world around blending into the music, his mind going quiet.  
Sherlock played for a long time before everything was silent.  
When he opened his eyes next, John was gone.  
He was nowhere to be seen in the flat.  
Sherlock sighed. He knew John had gone to Sarah's place.  
It was clear that what he had read as desire in the dilation of John's pupils was there for his girlfriend. He had wanted to touch and cuddle with his girlfriend. Sherlock's stomach churned and he sat down in his armchair, legs pulled up to his chest, chin resting on top of his knees.  
He stared at the other chair, idly wondering how long it would be before he lost John to one of his girlfriends.  
The phone lying on the coffee table looked inviting. All he had to do was send John one text. One text with the correct words and John would come running.  
Sherlock put the phone away.

~~~~~~~~~

John:

John downed the rest of his glass before setting it down on the table. He didn't care that this was his fifth glass and he was very much drunk. Mike Stamford stared at him from the other side of the table like he was an alien.  
"You okay there mate?" He asked.  
"Yes," John hissed, "Of course."  
"You don't look okay," he said, taking a sip from his own drink. Mike had barely finished two glasses.  
John grunted and called for another.

The case had been too much, too full of adrenaline and seeing those two men hug and touch in public had awakened the monster John had been trying to quiet down for so very long. The monster inside him that told him Sherlock actually liked him back. The monster that said pretty, powerful, dangerous things like, _He was playing the violin for you,_ or _He was staring at you longer than necessary, when you finished the case_  
Horrible, horrible lies. All of them, lies.  
John slammed his hand down on the table and fished his phone out of his pocket. He tapped on Sherlock's number and opened the chat window.  
He was about to type out a "What the fuck are you doing?" when he heard a snigger behind him.  
He turned slightly, eyeing the huge man standing behind him. John thought the man looked familiar, but he said nothing. He shrugged and got back to his drink, trying to type out the message even though his fingers weren't co-operating.  
That's when he felt a large hand land on his shoulder. John looked up from his phone. Again. The man was seething now. Perhaps he disliked being ignored?  
He stood up but before he could prepare himself for a fight, he was knocked backwards from the force of the punch.  
His jaw was stinging and he couldn't see or hear anything for the next few seconds. The alcohol wasn't helping either.  
He collected himself but he didn't want to hurt anyone so he just stared at the man, willing him to back down.  
The next words out of the man's mouth were words that insulted Sherlock. John did not know or understand the context, he was too drunk for that; but he did know that it was something bad, something to do with a case and something about Sherlock. He forced himself to keep his eyes open and let his military training take over his body.  
Four minutes, two punches and a kick to the abdomen later, the man, whoever he was, had been subdued. John was currently twisting his hand behind his back, his knee between the man's shoulder blades.  
He felt satisfied, but the sharp sting of pain in his body returned as the adrenaline faded away.  
The bad news was that his phone had got lost somewhere during the scuffle, maybe even had been stepped upon. Mike Stamford was still at the bar, calmly sipping from his glass. He didn't seem to be bothered by the fact that John had just beaten up some random bloke because he had called Sherlock names.  
He glanced at John, and raised his glass slightly in cheers and gestured towards the door  
Perhaps John could use Mike's phone to call Sherlock. John let go of the man, (he had passed out anyway), and he was about to call Sherlock from Mike's phone when he noticed a certain, tall lanky detective with a Belstaff enter the bar.  
"Sh'lock?" He asked, squinting in the general direction of his flatmate.  
"John? Are you alright?" Sherlock asked. He glared at Mike, "What was that text about?"   
Mike shrugged, "It's true. He DID get into a fight."  
"If I recall correctly, the exact words in your text were, 'Your wife is creating a scene here. Prolly missing you. Come and collect.' You mentioned nothing about John getting into a fight and being in a potentially life threatening situation while inebriated. Have you no brains whatsoever. " It wasn't quite a question but Mike just grinned.   
Then Sherlock being Sherlock, took one look at John and immediately deduced what had happened.  
John couldn't hold himself upright anymore. He lost his balance which wasn't very steady in the first place, thanks to the alcohol consumption. Sherlock's arms caught him before he crashed to the ground and John relaxed into the steady, inviting heat of his embrace.  
This was all he had wanted. To be held by Sherlock.  
Nothing more mattered now. Not the world, not the monster in his belly, not even the drink he had ordered.  
John closed his eyes and slumped against Sherlock, feeling rather smug that he had, in fact, gotten to cuddle Sherlock, even if it was for just a little while.


	6. Afraid to sleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of 3. nightmare but can be read alone too

6th November

John stared blankly up at the ceiling. It's awfully white. Just as the walls. And the floor. And the sheets. The gown was itching his back, and the pillow was too soft. The room was cold and his toes were freezing, but his side was sweating under the bandages. 

Sherlock was sleeping lightly in the chair beside him and John tried to move as little as possible as to not wake him up. Sherlock snored softly, his fingers twitching and eyes moving under his eyelids. John turned his head to the side to look at him better. He looked so peaceful, pure, where he sat sleeping, his shirt now rumpled. John sighed and closed his eyes. He turned over, pulling the sheets around his feet  to get back their warmth. 

"John?" a soft whisper behind him said. "Are you awake?"

John turned back around and winced as he laid pressure on his wound. He met Sherlock's eyes and they stared at each other. Both men letting their true feelings show. It was easier in the dark. Sherlock looked away first and sighed. He sat up in the chair and  scrubbed a hand over his face. 

“How are you feeling?” Sherlock leaned down and placed his elbows on his knees. 

“Not that good, but better than before,” John answered and sat up. He groaned. Instinctively Sherlock reached for John’s arms but John moved them away and sat up by himself. Sherlock fell back in his chair again.

"Sarah was here," Sherlock said slowly. He knitted his hands together hoping that John wouldn’t elaborate too much on it. John didn’t seem to notice his discomfort so he let out a silent sigh. " You were asleep." 

John hummed absentmindedly in response and sank down in the too soft pillow. His hands were lying by his side, the left one clenched hard. Both men fell silent. 

"What time is it?"

Sherlock checked his wrist watch and said, "Three thirty in the morning. You should sleep."

John glanced at Sherlock and gave him a small sad smile. "I can't."

Sherlock didn't smile back and just stared at John with empty eyes. After a while, John couldn't bear looking at Sherlock so he closed his eyes trying to ignore his presence. When Sherlock reached for his hand that task became difficult. 

"I am scared," Sherlock whispered. He placed his other hand on top of John's, trapping John's hand between his own. "I don't want you to die."

John saw the tears starting to form in Sherlock's eyes and looked the other way.

"I didn't though," he answered. He felt Sherlock squeeze his hand.

"No you didn't," Sherlock said silently. "But it's not over. Accidents will happen." A tear fell down over his cheek. John reached over, winced when he jostled his wound, and brushed the tear away with his thumb. He laid his hand over Sherlock's cheek and smiled a half-smile.

"And when that happens you'll be there for me." He stroked his thumb over Sherlock's cheekbone. "And I'll be there for you."

Sherlock looked down and when he looked up again his eyes were shiny from tears. 

"You should sleep," John said and dropped this hand. 

"You too."

Sherlock let go of John's hand, but before he could move it back to his lap John reached for his fingers. Sherlock slowly obliged and took John's hand again. Sherlock leaned back in the chair and John closed his eyes trying to ignore the dull throbbing in his side. Soon they were both asleep. 


	7. Blanket Fort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock spoils John's plan of fixing things with Sarah.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments, kudos are welcomem

The rain pelted heavily against the window pane. John did not know what he was feeling but "cozy" certainly wasn't it. Sarah had said it would feel cozy, warm to catch up in a blanket fort. And so they had set about making the fort. Which consisted of a measly three blankets. Neither of them had the energy to make a real fort. John burrowed under the blanket a little further, winding his arm around Sarah's shoulder when his phone started beeping. Sarah was asleep. He didn't want to wake her but it could be Sherlock. He could be in danger. John sighed and gently retrieved his arm, reaching for his phone. 

He squinted against the sudden flash of light as his screen lit up. 

He was right. It was Sherlock. 

"Come home. Could be dangerous. -SH" l

John couldn't help the rush of adrenaline that shot up his spine as he read those words.   
He felt inexplicably angry. At himself, at Sherlock. Sherlock knew John had been trying to patch things up with Sarah, but he still chose to interfere in their matters.

John took a deep breath. Angry though he was, he didn't want to leave Sherlock to whatever trouble he had gotten himself into. Leaving Sarah seemed a necessity at this point.  
He got out of bed as quietly as he could manage and pulled on his clothes. When he had worn his shirt, he heard Sarah stir behind him. John froze.

Sarah grunted and sat up, probably feeling the lack of warmth. She blinked at John, her expression confused but as she looked him up and down, realization dawned in her eyes.   
"He called didn't he." Her voice wasn't cold. It was routine, ordinary. To an outsider she would look like the news didn't matter to her.  
But John knew the truth. He knew Sarah was angry and he knew what was going to happen.  
"Yes." He answered, not daring to meet Sarah's eyes even as his voice sounded steady and confident to his own ears.  
"I hung up your coat at the end of the hallway." She said, "Your boots are on the stand by the fireplace. And I am assuming you know where the door is."  
John sighed, glancing in the direction of the door. He needed to get to Sherlock soon. "Can we…." He began, but he didn't know what to ask her.

"No." Came the stiff reply. Sarah was getting out of bed and putting on her dressing gown when John realized something. He had always known he wouldn't be able to fit into civilian life after coming back from Afghanistan. He had never imagined he would come back from the war in the first place. But he had supposed that if he did make it out alive, he would marry some girl and settle down in a domestic family life. What he hadn't taken into consideration was Sherlock. Whatever vague plans he had had with Sarah for his future were destroyed because of one text. From Sherlock. John clenched his fist.

"Okay." John said, feeling a little disappointed, but not overtly heartbroken. "I'll call you then?"  
"Don't bother." Sarah said coldly.  
"Oh. Okay."  
John took the coat down from the hanger, and put it on. He was out the door and had stepped into the rain when he had realised he had forgotten the umbrella.  
Great.


	8. Lashing out

8th November

John stood a couple of minutes outside of the front door letting his anger simmer for a bit. When his fingertips started getting cold he fished out the keys and opened the door. The hallway was warm so John took off his jacket and hung it beside Mrs. Hudson’s jacket. His steps were heavy as he climbed the stairs up to the first floor. When he reached the top he stopped at the doorway looking at Sherlock sitting in his chair. Sherlock didn’t register his presence and continued to look down at his phone. Angrily John stepped into the kitchen to make tea. Sherlock hummed but John decided to ignore it. As he carried his tea back into the living room Sherlock jumped out of his seat.

“Come on John, Molly’s waiting at Barts.”

John ignored Sherlock again and sat down in his chair. He opened the newspaper and settled in. When Sherlock realized that John was following him he turned back inside, his coat halfway on. 

“John, didn’t you hear me?” Sherlock pulled the coat up and fixed the coat collar. He walked in again to stand by John’s chair. 

“I did, I just chose to ignore it.” John took a sip from his tea. Sherlock frowned.

“What’s wrong?” Sherlock asked carefully. John put his cup down with a small slam. He folded the paper, letting it ruffle loudly. 

“What’s wrong?” John repeated, his voice dripping with poison. He took a deep calming breath. Before he could say anything Sherlock spoke, “The way you slammed your teacup, folded the newspaper, your shoulders are tense, your left leg is spasming every now and then out of anger.” He waved his hands and then let them fall, the arms smacking against his side. Then he raised them again pointing at John with open hands. “These are all signs that you’re angry,” he exclaimed frustrated. 

“You’re right,” John said calmly, “you just forgot about the small tea stain over here-” John pointed at the small table his cup stood on, “-’cause my hand shook when I put the tea down.” John raised an eyebrow and gave Sherlock a look to tell him to move out of the way. He stood up and waited for Sherlock to move. He didn’t.

“So what’s wrong then?” Sherlock yelled and gripped John’s upper arms. John went stiff in Sherlock’s arms before pushing him away hard.

“Sherlock, how can you be so stupid?” John groaned and moved away from Sherlock. A hand came up to run through his hair. Sherlock was still standing with his arms out where he had held John. As John continued to run his hands over his face in frustration a thought dawned for Sherlock. John wasn’t angry, he was upset.

“John,” Sherlock said softly and reached out a hand to touch his shoulder. John flinched away. Sherlock took another step closer and tried again.

“Don’t!” John roared, turning around. “Can’t’ you see that it’s you?” he screamed towards Sherlock. Sherlock felt the hairs on his neck stand up and he sank down in his coat as if trying to hide from John. 

“John, I don’t quite under-” Sherlock whispered before being interrupted by John.

“Of fucking course you wouldn’t!” 

John sighed and tried to collect himself. “Sarah broke up with me.” His voice broke.

Sherlock’s face fell and he carefully moved towards John, hesitantly reaching out to him. John let him. He took hold of John’s shoulders and slowly pushed him against his chest. John’s arms hung limp by his sides. He raised his head and looked up at Sherlock with blank eyes. 

“It’s your fault.” He swallowed hard. He distanced himself from Sherlock, but Sherlock kept his hands on his shoulders. Sherlock looked at John’s face but John only stared back, his face devoid empty. His eyes started to water. Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. John ripped himself free from Sherlock’s grip.

“Have fun at Barts,” he said and went upstairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading <333


	9. Confession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John knows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is based off of the previous ones. Please read them before you proceed.

7th November

Sleeping that night was harder than Sherlock had imagined. The guilt churning in his gut was worse than not being able to solve a case, even though he had solved this one.  
Sherlock could not fathom why John had been so upset. He had only just told him the truth. It could have been dangerous. No amount of precautions could really prepare one for the disastrous events that seemed to happen at Barts.  
Dead bodies, sick bodies all of them seemed to pile at the hospital. In conclusion, Barts was as dangerous as life itself. Why this was news to John, completely escaped Sherlock’s understanding.  
He picked up his violin. It was only three o’clock in the morning, but Sherlock was sure John wouldn’t mind if he played now.  
Just as he was finishing his piece, he heard John come downstairs and set the kettle for boiling. Sherlock turned around and placed the violin carefully back in its case. 

John was stirring his tea, back ramrod straight. Sherlock could almost taste the tension rippling off of him.  
“John?” He asked, wringing his hands together.  
He did not look at Sherlock. “Tea?” John asked instead.  
“No, thank you.”  
Neither of them said anything for another minute and the only sounds in the room were those of the china clinking together as John stirred his tea.  
Finally, he sighed and sat down in his chair by the fireplace. “How was Barts.” John asked, his voice betraying nothing.  
“I didn’t go.”  
John raised his eyebrow in surprise. “Why? Thought you said it was important. Apparently more important than my relationship.”  
“Yes, it was. Almost everything is more important than your relationships John. The average time they last is about 2 to 4 weeks. Sarah’s was the longest. Anything that short lived is not worth my attention.” Sherlock huffed out a breath and picked up the laptop, idly typing out the results of his previous experiment.  
John’s hand clenched around the mug. "That does not give you the right to interrupt my dates all the time."  
“Oh come on John. We both know you crave the adrenaline of being with me.” He gives John a smug grin.  
John's expression turns cloudy with restrained anger. He says nothing.  
Sherlock, instead of taking the cue and shutting up, continues into dangerous territory. “Besides, today wasn’t a date. Judging from your response time, you weren’t even having fun while at Sarah’s. You were LOOKING for a distraction. The only reason you are so angry and upset is that your ego was hurt after she dumped you. She is the fourth female in a row who has ended things with you. And you being-”  
“Enough, Sherlock” John stood up from his chair, his whole body quivering and voice dropping low, dangerous. “Don’t try to psychoanalyze me. Talk about you, why don’t we? You ruin each and every one of my dates. It’s either for a case, or for something extremely trivial like that time you needed the laptop and couldn’t be arsed to get up and get it on your own. And judging by the evidence and your enthusiasm toward ruining my dates, I’d say you DO care about my relationship status, Sherlock. Perhaps a little too much for it to pass as normal.”  
It was Sherlock’s turn to go still. He stared at the laptop, not registering what he had previously typed. His mind was in chaos.  
What John had implied right now….. It couldn’t be….. How could he have been so stupid. Sherlock had resolved not to let John find out. Not to let anyone find out.  
He had buried it in the deepest corners of his mind; but now, the secret was out. John had somehow deduced Sherlock’s true feelings. The carefully maintained order in Sherlock’s mind decimated as quickly as sand slipping through his fingers.  
It did not matter anymore. John knew.  
Sherlock set down the laptop on the coffee table and stood up too. Trying to deny it all was the only option he had left.  
And so, he stared John in the eye and asked him, “What are you trying to imply?”  
John smiled, but there was nothing happy about the expression. “Do you really want me to spell it out for you? Does the genius detective not see something so obvious?”  
What little hope Sherlock had had of John accepting his feelings and reciprocating them, flickered out. He was being made fun of.  
“Yes,” he growled looking away from John’s beautiful dark eyes. “It’s true.”  
The worst part was watching as the magnitude of his words hit John. He staggered, taking a step away from Sherlock.  
That was all the confirmation Sherlock needed.  
He turned and bounded down the staircase and straight out of the flat. Tears stung his eyes but he did not dare stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments and kudos are always welcome and will fuel our muses to bring u consequent chapters faster! <333


	10. Crying

10th November

John’s gaze followed Sherlock’s form as he ran down the stairs. He heard the front door bang shut and he let his hand, which was reaching out for Sherlock, fall down. John felt his head getting heavier and he stumbled backwards and sank down in a chair. The flat was completely silent except for John’s heavy breathing, his chest rising and falling in a rapid tempo. His pulse was hammering in his ear and his palms had started to sweat. A panic attack was incoming. John tried to calm his breathing before he dried his hands on his trousers. Then he returned to routine, the one thing he did best. Kettle, water, tea, mugs. Water filled, kettle on. Teabags in mugs, turn around to the fridge for milk. Warm water in mugs, seep for three minutes, remove bags. Dash of milk in one mug. As he took both mugs and walked into the living room he realized his mistake. Sherlock was gone. Forever? John didn’t know. A loud sob echoed off the walls in the small flat. His shoulders slumped and tea spilled out from the mugs staining the carpet. He placed the mugs down on the table beside his chair before sinking down to the floor, back against his own chair. Knees drawn up, he rested his face on them. Another sob escaped his lips. His bottom lip started to quiver as he leaned his head back against the chair. Small drops landed on John’s shirt and he tried to dry away the tears but more kept on coming.

From the back of the room came a soft little thud. John turned his head and looked to the corner behind Sherlock’s chair. Sherlock’s violin bow had fallen down from where it had been balanced by the wall. It wasn’t like Sherlock to keep his bow like that. Slowly John got up and went over to the bow. Carefully he picked it up and put it in the case. Hopefully he placed it right. Inside lay the violin, silently and almost dead now that Sherlock wasn’t holding it under his chin. Hesitantly he touched the woodwork, cautious fingers gliding over the strings. G, D, A, E, Sherlock had once told him. John didn’t know what that meant. A slow tear ran down John’s nose and down on the body of the violin. He pulled his jumper down over his hand and hurriedly dried away the tear, afraid it would leave a mark. Afraid of ruining the violin John closed the case and sat down in Sherlock’s chair. He let the black chair engulf him as he pulled up his legs and rested his head on the armrest. He closed his eyes and listened to his breathing. Faint violin sounds started playing, one of Sherlock's favorite pieces. John could see the furrow in his brow in every crescendo, followed by a softening look in every diminuendo. His arm stroking the bow over the strings, loose wrist, fingers running over the neck, steady and gracefully. At one place the music stopped, a sigh, and then played again, the sound a little different as Sherlock fixed his mistake. John hummed in one with the melody in his head, sometimes interrupted by a sob.

As the piece came to an end John's face was wet on one side, and his shoulder had cramped up. Yet he refused to move. He closed his eyes, a single tear running down to his ear, before quietly falling asleep.

~~~

As Sherlock slammed shut the front door a gust of wind hit his face and a tear trickled down his cheek. He wrapped the coat tighter around himself and put on his gloves. With a low profile and shoulders hunched over, he started wandering the streets of London. The wind didn’t slow down, carrying him to Regent’s Park. He sat down on a bench, crossing his legs and hands in his lap. Across from him sat a couple, close to each other, holding hands. Sherlock looked away. A tear started to form in the corner of his eye and he quickly brushed it away. What if John was gone when he went home. Sherlock felt a sob force its way through his throat. A woman walking by looked at him but she didn’t stop. Abruptly he stood up and started walking with long determined strides. After ten minutes he was back at the same bench again. He started to walk again, this time taking another route. To the left, then right, out of the park. A short man with grey hair walked past, Sherlock turning his head to keep his eyes on him. He couldn’t stop thinking about John.

People hurried past him, a knitted sweater over a shirt, grey hair slicked back, short, muscular thighs visible through jeans, a strong jaw biting into a burrito, blue eyes looking at clothes, sturdy hands holding mobile phones, John, John, John John John everywhere. Sherlock’s eyes were roaming through the masses of people, everywhere searching for a little part of John. Fingers pulling his own hair with a grunt of frustration. Nobody seemed to notice the distressed man. He stopped, turned around, walked another way.

Too many people, too many people, too much John, johnjohnjohnjohn. Sherlock pushed his hands deep down in his pockets and walked into a less crowded street. Just as he rounded the corner he saw a pub filled with middle aged men, almost half of them wearing knitted sweaters of the same kind. Sherlock backed away immediately. No, no, no, no, johnjohnjohn. He bumped into a man with silverfox and tried to apologize, no words coming out of his mouth. As he stumbled into the main street again Johns were filling up the pavement, sitting on benches, in busses, talking on the phone. Sherlock turned around and around, his coat flapping around him. “John? John. John! John?” he mumbled to himself, staring all the Johns in the face. A man bumped into his shoulder.

“Oi, watch out,” John said and continued down the road. Another John touched his arm.

“Are you alright Sherlock?” John asked. Sherlock ripped his arm free staring at his face in disbelief. Johns were now looking at him, getting concerned.

“Sherlock, you good mate?”

“Hey, calm down pal.”

“Sherlock, breathe for me please.” Someone touched his shoulder.

“Enough!” Sherlock roared and whipped around making the Johns back away.

“Mate, are you okay?” a young man asked. Sherlock only looked at him. Not John. He started to mumble, “Yes, yes, yes, yes.” And then he was off, leaving all the not-Johns standing there wondering what was wrong with him. He didn’t stop until he found a narrow alleyway with a container to hide behind. Sherlock leaned back against the container and took deep breaths. He took off his gloves and pressed his hands against the cold metal of the container. A shiver ran down his spine as he lifted his hands to his cheeks. He closed his eyes and now it was John’s warm hands holding him. Tears started to run down his face, his chest once again heaving for a breath. John’s thumb was stroking his cheekbones slowly and Sherlock felt his head being tipped down. He could feel John’s chest against his own. Warm air grazed the side of his mouth, his lip starting to quiver. And suddenly everything fell apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry guys, it gets better <3  
> Feel free to leave a comment about your frustration, it is much appreciated


	11. PTSD

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is in trouble and John is helpless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please take heed of the tags before reading. This chapter contains mentions of rape/non-con. Do not read if that sort of thing triggers you.  
> Another important thing: I have tried my best to realistically portray PTSD. However, please bear in mind that I'm no medical professional and my sincerest apologies if I got any of it wrong. All mistakes are mine and are unintentional. That said, if anyone finds any discrepancies with the story, please feel free to DM or send me an ask on tumblr so that I can fix my mistakes and learn from them.  
> My tumblr is @johnlock-and-merthur-4ever  
> Regards,  
> Athena.

11th November: PTSD

Sherlock felt the graze of John’s lips against his own.He closed his eyes, reveling in the sensation because he knew it wasn’t going to last. When he finally opened his eyes it wasn’t John who was standing before him. It was someone else.  
Sherlock jerked his head away, and stood up, panic creeping up his throat. The man who was before him, who he had somehow missed, was definitely high. He was dangerous. Even while high, the way he carried himself reminded Sherlock of John. If John was a drug addict, that is.  
He took a step back from the man, trying not to think about what happened when he got himself into a situation like this. During his twenties, alleys and strange men gave him what he needed most; drugs. But right now, even thinking about that time made him shiver.  
Sherlock stood frozen in place, the memories of drunken sex and forced blowjobs in narrow alleyways rendering him motionless. His body had frozen up, but he could hear the man talking. He was saying something, if only Sherlock could focus for once if he could just focus. "...... 're not Jim" and "my Jim isn't here" filtered through the fog in his brain. The name sent shivers down his spine.  
A cold, large hand jerked him out of his stupor, standing out in stark contrast to the hand Sherlock had imagined. This was certainly not John and Sherlock cursed himself for ever thinking otherwise.  
"NO!" He yelled, trying to get away from the man.  
Before Sherlock could take off from there, he felt the side of his head slam into the cold hard metal. He groaned and tried to stand up, but in vain. When he had managed to get onto his hands and knees, a kick to his shins prevented any chance of him getting up and going to the safety of home; to the safety of John’s hands treating his wounds.  
Blow after blow sent Sherlock deeper into his mind palace, which was spiralling out of control. He did not care about where he was or what was happening to his body.  
All he hoped was that John would come to save him soon. And yet deep down, he knew that John was not coming. He was probably in Baker Street contemplating whether or not he should move out. Knowing John, he had probably thought it all out.  
Sherlock’s resolve crumbled a little more and the scream that ripped from his throat was one of pain let loose. Months of keeping it all in, months of hiding his affection from the very object of his affections and the consequences that had followed; all of it came crashing down on him and he slumped against the metal floor.  
The man was ruthless. Sherlock blacked out.

~~~~  
John woke with a start, a sinking feeling settling at the pit of his stomach, the crick in his neck hindering his movements.  
Something was wrong. He could feel it in his bones John picked up his phone and fiddled with it, debating whether or not he should call Sherlock after what had happened.  
He put the phone down.  
Sherlock was probably roaming the streets of London, looking for a new case. He did not need John and certainly not after he had been refused.  
Most people in John's experience were like that. They would get upset and throw a fit if they were refused or if John turned down their advances. Most of John's relationships existed in order to prevent conflict and before he knew it, he had broken another heart. He wondered if Sherlock was going to be like the others in this respect. Because no matter how hard he tried to be an emotionless self proclaimed sociopath, deep down Sherlock was just as human as anyone else.  
John glanced up at the ceiling for one long moment and decided to head up to bed  
It had been 48 hours since John had last seen Sherlock. Every time he picked up his phone to either ring or text Sherlock, the thought of Sherlock needing some space, a little time to himself stopped him.  
On the third day, John could not wait anymore. He dialed Mycroft and when he answered, John told him to look for his brother and hung up quickly. He feared that if Mycroft asked for the details, which he was going to soon, he would have to tell the older man all about his brother and how John had broken his heart.  
John picked at his nails, staring at the skull on the mantelpiece and willing Sherlock to come back. Their next confrontation was bound to be awkward and stilted but he could swallow down the discomfort as long as Sherlock was safe.  
He looked at his phone once again, waiting. When it buzzed next, the number which appeared on the screen was not one John was expecting.  
Molly.  
When Molly told him about how she had found Sherlock, his body bruised and battered, John's first reaction was not anger or hurt or sympathy, even though those were certainly on the list. His first reaction was flight. He did not know whether he wanted to run from or toward Sherlock. The confusion that clouded his mind did not go away until he found himself standing before Bart's, the hospital looming in front of him. In a dazed stupor, he carried himself inside, enquiring in a flat voice about the whereabouts of Sherlock Holmes.  
The room was a private ward, but it wasn't the luxury ward so it was safe to assume that Mycroft hadn't been informed yet. John limped over to the window. The sight that met his eyes was horrible in too many ways to count. Sherlock lay there, his body limp and broken. John's breath caught in his throat as memories of war flooded into his mind. For a moment, he was back in Afghanistan, and the bombs had claimed Sherlock and he could do nothing but watch. Watch as the bombs tore Sherlock's body to shreds, watch as Sherlock screamed in agony until he couldn't.  
John gasped and slumped against the wall, the smell of sterile chlorine and cleanliness stinging his nose. He could not stop the flashbacks, not after he had seen Sherlock like....that.  
John gagged.  
The small comforting hand on his arm brought him back somewhat but he still hadn't come back to himself. Someone handed him a glass of water, which he gulped down immediately. Perhaps too fast because the coughing fit that followed after, took him back again. His mind's eye showed him things he never wanted to see. Sherlock was being waterboarded as John screamed. Sherlock being held down in the pool, thrashing helplessly. Sherlock as the battered victim of war that John had tried to treat in Afghanistan. He hadn't been able to save him. He wouldn't be able to save Sherlock either.  
For those men, he would always be the doctor that killed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to leave us a kudos and a comment. They really make our day better <3

**Author's Note:**

> Thenk you so much for reading! Keyboard slams, comments and kudos are all welcome in this house


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